Seat of power, p.20
Seat of Power, page 20
Though his bed had been her sarcophagus, the linen was stripped and the mattress taken away. The crime scene wasn’t as ominous as he feared.
They toured other rooms. Carpeting had been ripped up, wallpaper stripped away, dresser drawers pulled out, closets ransacked, bookcases emptied. His home office had been disassembled into a junk heap of file folders, scattered papers, and broken computer equipment. His personal laptop, tablet, and cell phone were missing, doubtless confiscated as evidence. Framed pictures had been torn from hooks and thrown aside. Holes were punched into walls. Not much was left of his life. Not here. Not anywhere.
“I’ll be all right now.” His voice belonged to a stranger. “You can go.”
“Why don’t you take a hotel room? For tonight at least.”
“I’ll be all right,” he said again. “You can go.”
Devlin took his hand and clasped his forearm, the double grip an offer of solidarity from one comrade to another. “Call me. Day or night. You have my number.”
Jack locked up after Marty left. Much of the media had already dispersed. Neighbors were ordering stragglers to leave. This was a gated community, and the gates would lock them inside if they didn’t go now. The rain clouds returned, putting a limit on what the reporters were willing to put up with.
Jack huddled in a corner of the living room, forehead resting on bent knees, legs trembling, head pounding, the ankle bracelet an annoying reminder of the trap he was in. He was still in solitary confinement, a man alone in his personal jail.
Eventually he lumbered to his feet and forced himself to look away from the disarray left by intruders. He would face it tomorrow. Or never. Something more important was on his mind. He clambered back upstairs and glanced around. He had to acclimate himself. These rooms, these hallways, these walls belonged to others who had invaded his privacy and trod over these floors, disrupting the harmony and leaving behind their essences.
Inside the guest bathroom, behind one of the doors of the vanity cabinet, and slipped into a notched compartment designed for razor blades, lay a miniature flash drive, exactly where he had left it. He slid it into his pocket and went back downstairs.
He made a phone call on his landline. With the permission of his parole officer, Jack called a cab. He stocked up on provisions. Cereal, milk, orange juice, chips, frozen pizza, toilet paper, liquor, a new laptop, and several prepaid phones. He decided to set up shop as an independent contractor with one exclusive client: John Jackson Coyote, falsely accused of murder and in the fight of his life.
While making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, his next-door neighbor knocked on the door. She and her husband probably didn’t appreciate having their lives disrupted and their kids frightened half to death, but she seemed kind and concerned, and asked if he needed anything. He didn’t. She handed him an envelope. “A woman asked me to give this to you if you came home. She wanted it delivered personally. She made me promise.” Her eyes shifted warily around. She started to go but turned back, her face filled with curiosity alongside embarrassment. “I have to ask. Did you do it?” And immediately took it back. “No, don’t tell me. I really don’t want to know. Just leave, okay? Nobody wants you here.” She left.
Before locking up, Jack scanned the street. He spotted a black van with tinted window, engine running. In the falling darkness of evening, the driver appeared as a broad and indistinct shadow. Benedicto or one of his deputies. Jack waved and retreated inside, turning the deadbolt lock. Inside the envelope was a note from Liz. She needed to talk to him. Could he call her as soon as he got home? He crumpled it and tossed it toward the tabletop basketball hoop. It was a three-pointer. He stripped off his clothes and dialed the thermostat down to wind-chill factor. He turned on the TV, popped open a can of beer, stretched out on the sofa, and contemplated his navel. Being out on bail was infinitely more comfortable than being locked inside an antiseptic cell. But he was still a man confined. By a physical prison demarcated by the dimensions of a two-storey townhouse and an electronic bracelet. And by a prison of the mind.
Isolation comes in many forms. Some are imposed by others. Others by oneself.
He drained the beer can before groaning to a sitting position. He popped open another beer, tore open a bag of chips, and got down to work. He set up the new laptop. Established security passwords. Installed firewalls. And keyed in the URL of an anonymity browser. Once the app was installed, his searches and website visits would bounce around a network of relays and switches across the globe, a trail no person, no supercomputer, and no algorithm could follow, thus preventing the triangulation of his physical location.
The blinking cursor on the browser awaited input. He sat back and stared at the monitor, his fingers itching to play a tune on the keyboard but his mind registering a blank. Fear was the reason. Overriding, gut-wrenching, and paralyzing fear of what he would find ... or not find.
He didn’t fully understand how the man known as Jack Coyote had become a number in the county jail system. But he did have an inkling of when the wheels of injustice were set into motion. He was the one who tripped the switch.
After working at HID for less than a month, he came across a sweeping program designed to eavesdrop on the public, most of whom were guilty of nothing but suspected of everything. Phone calls were logged and conversations transcribed. Television viewing habits were noted, social networks tracked, online posts monitored, web searches recorded, and emails and text messages captured. Voting habits, political leanings, and social causes were categorized. Personal associations were linked to the second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth degrees of separation.
None of this was new. In the post-9/11 era, as part of the war on terror, the National Security Agency conducted a warrantless surveillance program focusing on communications. By targeting would-be Islamist terrorists, the program threw out a wide enough net to ensnare American citizens. Deemed a violation of unreasonable search and seizure, the wiretapping program was limited in scope by Congress. Not only had the Homeland Intelligence Division appropriated the worst parts of the NSA’s surveillance practices, it expanded on them.
It took him days, weeks, and months to fully analyze how the interlocking pieces of the program—dubbed Spinnaker—fit together. His study led to the only feasible conclusion. HID was on a mission to codify and digitize the wholesale personal data of every individual domiciled within the fifty states; to extrapolate electronic fingerprints and psychological profiles from that data; to track the movements and associations of individuals identified as potential enemies of the homeland; and to use predictive analysis to uncover plots and conspiracies. Spinnaker already had the capacity to isolate individuals perceived to be threats against a paranoid government and to curtail their activities before anything happened, often based on assumptions and presumptions, and sometimes without concrete proof that could hold up in a court of law.
The implications were suspicious enough for him to start asking questions. The answers were usually vague. Some called it business as usual. Others as marketing research and lifestyle tracking, as if the government were selling soap and cornflakes. Sister agencies fully cooperated in the effort, ironically the same agencies experiencing the security breaches Jack was brought in to investigate. A special unit inside the Signals Intelligence Bureau ran the program. Angie Browne and Camilla Howden shared oversight. When he mentioned to them the possibility of a link between the security breaches and Spinnaker, they told him to look elsewhere. He hadn’t.
Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones. He shot to his feet. Scoured his eyesight around the living room. Lifted his vision toward the second floor. Studied the shuttered windows and locked doors; the artwork hanging on the walls; the decorative light fixtures secured to the ceiling; the hardwood floor beneath his feet; the security system monitoring every entrance and exit ... and went into action. He tore the place apart. Peered behind mirrors. Probed beneath furniture. Ran his fingers along baseboards. Examined cables and electrical sockets. Pointed a flashlight into corners and crevices. And found nothing. Yet he felt violated, as if his private space had been invaded. He was sure of it. Someone had put out an order to get Coyote. Someone at HID. Or the State Department. Or the CIA. Persons unknown had been surveilling him for weeks, maybe for months, all while he brashly investigated the inner workings of HID, thinking he was just doing a job, believing himself free from scrutiny.
After weeks of pondering and bewailing his circumstances, he finally knew what he was up against. They wanted to shut him up. And they wanted to do it in such a way that wouldn’t raise suspicions or shine too bright a light on themselves. He had to find out who was behind the plot, who put out the order, and who was guilty of murder by proxy. It was up to him—and him alone—to track down the architect and wipe him or her off the face of the planet. He might be captured or maimed or tortured or imprisoned or killed in the process, but he had no choice.
He sat before the laptop. Input a string of letters into the search box. Clicked the Enter key. And began his quest.
33
Bay Harbor Marina, Maryland
Wednesday, July 23
THE DOORBELL DING-DONGED. The dog next door barked. Jack popped open a window on the laptop. The security camera zoomed in on a slim woman of tall stature and exquisite beauty. At her back, the churning waters of the bay sparkled on the descent of day. She was dressed as if it were late autumn instead of the dog days of summer. Leather jacket. Skinny jeans. Cowboy boots. Scarf tied around her throat. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses while impatience showed on her pursed mouth.
She gripped two carryout bags stuffed to capacity and held them up for show-and-tell. “I know you’re there, Jack,” she said, angling her head at the security cam.
He closed the lid of the laptop before going to the door, barefoot and bare-assed.
“Jesus.” She didn’t stand on formality but barged inside, brushing past him like a winter wind. “You’re an ass, anybody ever tell you? Even if it’s a mighty fine ass.”
“Does that mean we’re still friends?”
“Not a chance in hell.”
“Phew, I was afraid there for a minute.” He swung the door shut and faced her. “What do you want?”
“For starters? Civility would be nice. Gee, Liz, what a surprise. How are you? Long time, no see. You’re looking good. Thanks for thinking of me.” She flipped back her hair, her wholly untamable hair that had a mind of its own, exactly like its owner.
“Gee, Liz, what a surprise. You’re gorgeous as ever. And just as bitchy.”
“Did you get my note?”
“Your little playmates want you to talk to me.” He stated it as fact.
Caught out and red-faced for it, she said, “Have you eaten? I’ll bet you haven’t eaten anything but your own fucking pride.” She swirled around and stomped into the kitchen, depositing the carryout bags, searching cabinets for dishes, and rummaging in drawers for utensils. “Go clean up. You look like you haven’t had a decent shower in―”
“Three weeks?”
She whirled on him and crossed her arms, waiting like a mother hen, her foot beating a tattoo on the ceramic tile. “And put something on. I never did like staring at a man’s dick when I’m trying to carry on a conversation.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted and clambered upstairs.
Twenty minutes later, she set before him a monstrous deli sandwich, tossed salad, French fries, pickles, and a jumbo mug of black coffee. Then she propped herself against the kitchen counter, a steamy coffee cup nestled between both her palms as if it were a frigid night in December.
“Not eating?”
She removed her sunglasses and set them aside. “I’d throw up.”
“And aren’t we full of good cheer,” he said airily. He ate, and along with the meal, swallowed crow under her fearful amber eyes. Eventually she pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. “Why don’t you say what you came to say?”
“Only after I’m convinced you’re not on a hunger strike.” The way she looked down on him from her haughty posture put him in his place like no other woman ever could. After he had demolished half the sandwich, she let out an exasperated sigh. “I’ve been told to tell you that it would be in your best interest to leave town. I told them to fuck off.”
“Really. Fuck off.”
“Mind, not in those precise words. You know me. The quintessence of Southern charm. Drink my mint juleps and say Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir. And do you have to keep your house so damned cold?”
“And you know me,” he said. “Or should by now.”
She set down the mug and crossed her arms. “Are you suggesting I’m cold-blooded while you’re hot-blooded?”
“You said it. I didn’t.” He picked up the remaining half of the sandwich and grinned. He was hungrier than he thought. Or maybe it was the company he was keeping. “Does leaving town entail a voluntary act on my part? Or an involuntary one?”
“You think you’re so damned clever.”
“If I were, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you.”
She tossed her head toward the ceiling, an avoidance tactic to keep from looking into his eyes. “John suggested you could pull a playing card out of your sleeve.”
“Just disappear off the map, is that it?”
“Something like that.”
“And you believe him? Believe it would be that easy?”
“Sort of like I believe you’re as innocent as the day is long.” She gave him a sharp eye, still hugging herself. “And you look like hell.”
“Jailtime does that to a guy.”
She pushed back her hair with a slightly trembling hand and let out a nervous laugh. “I guess I haven’t been getting much sleep, either.”
It took courage to do the right thing. Sometimes it just took blind recklessness and foolish arrogance. What he hadn’t suspected while playing spy inside a spy agency was that his activities had been noticed. When Liz said as much to Benedicto, the detective hadn’t given much credence to the notion. Liz knew better. Now Jack knew better, too.
“HID hired someone to set me up. Was it you?” He was angling for an answer. He didn’t expect one. He was looking for her reaction.
She glared at him without a blink of an eye or an intake of breath. “How could you think I would ever betray you?”
“You knew what I was doing. You must have known.”
“That’s what we hired you for, isn’t it?” she said, knowing he never let job descriptions and bullet points stop him from applying the many skills of his trade.
“Is that the official line? Or the unofficial one?”
“It’s the only line I have. And believe you me, I’ve gotten lots of practice delivering it.” She laughed again, this time to relieve stress. “I remember you talking once about heroes not signing up to be heroes. Don’t be a hero, Jack. Just walk away. Do it for me.” Her final words came out like a prayer. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Someone had found out what he was doing, he knew that now. He only had himself to blame. He hadn’t covered his tracks well enough. Or slipped up somewhere. Or opened his big mouth one too many times, and kept pressing for answers and justifications, even after cautions and advices. He had always been an arrogant SOB, cocksure of his skills, his shrewdness, his smarts. However much he wanted to dismiss what was plain to a blind man, an order had come down. Jack Coyote must be neutralized. Not with a bullet or a convenient accident or a poison-tipped umbrella, but by subtler means. The order could have been issued by Derek Salazar himself. Or by any of his direct reports. Neville Brandon would be the obvious choice, though it just as easily could have come from any one of five senior officers or five deputy directors, or any of their direct reports. Or from someone outside the Firm.
He looked at Liz. Their eyes met. She was the first one to blink. She gathered up her purse and cell phone. “I have to go. I’m late as it is.”
He caught up with her in the foyer and pulled her reluctant body into his determined arms, banging the door shut seconds before her escape. Ignoring her fuming protestations, he silenced her with a kiss, and kept on kissing her, drinking in mouthfuls of venom and spite until she finally gave into pleasure and released satisfying moans. When it was done, he kissed her once more, chastely on the forehead, using the moment to consider the fierce brownness of her eyes.
“Bastard,” she said before yanking herself away and banging out the door.
He grinned. Once upon a time they had taken a side trip together, Liz and him. When it ended, both thought it was over. It would never be over. Not for her. And not for him.
34
Bay Harbor Marina, Maryland
Wednesday, July 23
AFTER LIZ LEFT, Jack tried to sleep. His churning mind refused to release his body. He rolled over in the narrow confines of the downstairs sofa, blinked open his burning eyes, and stared at the shadows playing across the ceiling.
Plans for ramping up the Spinnaker program were in the works. Within five years, the entire domestic population would be swept into it, the reach into private lives formidable and the consequences dire. While everyday people were going about their everyday lives—surfing the internet, checking email, and watching situation comedies—their electronic devices were documenting everything they said, did, and thought.
Jack had asked more questions, sensitive questions, questions management didn’t appreciate him asking, even if his job description required him to do just that. He was approached by co-workers who offered unsolicited but friendly advice to back off. Chris Cameron was one of them. Harrison Tobias, another. They shared cautionary tales of previous staff members having been dismissed on this pretext or that organizational restructuring. Company spirit and rah-rah language were interlaced with friendly warnings. Even Aneila shook her head in silent rebuke at the mention of Spinnaker.
